


a mystery, wrapped in a fetish, wrapped in Phil Coulson’s superhero design sensibilities

by visiblemarket



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Intercrural Sex, M/M, PWP, SO, but on the other man it got all feelingsed up, field suit porn, like on the one hand i want to call this crack, there is that, up against the desk porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 10:47:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1384771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thoughts and feelings are had over Hawkeye's field suit. Thoughts and feelings and, eventually, actions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a mystery, wrapped in a fetish, wrapped in Phil Coulson’s superhero design sensibilities

**Author's Note:**

> This is what [precious bb queer phil coulson headcanons](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/tagged/precious-bb-queer-phil-coulson/chrono)* hath wrought. Look upon it, ye mortals, and despair. 
> 
> [For](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/80672755937/its-a-hawkeye-thing) [reference](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/post/80981906508/maquisleader-aeryndex-uuuhshiny-the).
> 
> *Includes no actual precious bb queer Phil Coulson headcanons, because that's just how I roll.

Clint Barton is a menace.

To society in general; to the mental health of his colleagues, more often than not; to Phil's sanity and common sense, at present.

Because here he is, in Phil's office, ostensibly showing off the newly completed prototype field uniform, though that could have been done from the doorway, or on the other side of the desk, or down in R&D division, which is where said prototype is supposed to be. 

Instead, he is perched, quite happily, on the left-hand corner of Phil's desk, and has long-since stopped even talking about the light protective plates tucked beneath the burgundy panels of his vest, the reinforced ribbing that will divert the force of blows to his torso. The knee pads, he hasn't even mentioned, but they are at the forefront of Phil's mind right now, given that Clint has seen fit to brace his left foot on the edge of Phil's chair, bringing Clint's knee and thigh within easy reach.

Clint catches him staring, and grins. Nudges his ankle, which is wrapped up tight in the new, sturdy combat boots that he has for once laced up properly, against Phil's thigh. 

Phil's fingers twitch, desperate for contact, but Phil restrains himself: his resolve is steel, his mind a placid lake, his hand is running over the rigid braces on Clint's boot and up the curve of Clint's calf, because Phil's self-control is worth shit when it comes to Clint Barton.

Clint chuckles to himself, smug and predatory, as he swings his left foot out of Phil's grip and into the space between Phil's legs. He reaches out across the edge of Phil's desk, braces a hand at the very center, and scootches himself over toward Phil.

It should look ridiculous; it _does_ look ridiculous, Clint sliding his ass across Phil's desk and knocking Phil's pencil holder over in his efforts, but Phil's staring at the muscles of Clint's gloriously bare arms and barely notices. Clint grins at that; swings his left foot over Phil's right thigh, tucks the steel-reinforced toes of his boots under the seat of Phil's chair, and hauls it into place between his legs. Phil finds himself bracketed by Clint's impossibly firm thighs, stroking his palms over the supple, leather-like material (he's been told it breathes like a dream; from the way he can feel Clint's body heat through it, he hopes it's true). He lingers on the straps that wrap around Clint's thighs; he wants to hook his fingers through them, drag Clint off his desk and into his lap. He doesn't.

"You like the pants?" Clint says, voice low and drawling, but with a wry twist of mirth.

"Do you?" 

"They're a little...tight."

And Phil almost manages a sensible response to that, a suggestion that he needs another fitting, that with time they'll wear out (though R&D has assured him this won't be the case) but Clint gives a tiny buck of the hips, a small impatient thrust, and Phil's mouth goes dry as notices how hard Clint is. 

It's good to know, at least, that whatever game Clint is playing here, he's turned on by it as well. 

Phil runs his hands further up Clint's thighs, lets his palms glance at the twitching bulge between Clint’s legs, before sliding them up Clint's chest. Clint lets out a frustrated huff of air, and Phil sympathizes: the light-weight body armor shielding Clint from bullets and blows must make it impossible for him to register even the firmest of touches to his hips and stomach right now. 

Phil stands, and Clint breathes a sigh of relief: his hands reach out and settle on Phil's hips, light and careful, as if not sure they want to be there. Phil tries not to react: doesn't want to startle him, doesn't want him to move. Doesn't meet his eyes as he leans in, unbuckling the clasp around his throat: supposedly it'll protect his neck, but Phil privately thinks it'd be pretty useless against an attack to Clint's jugular. It's dark, similar in leather-like texture to the pants, with two metal button snaps at each end, and reminds Phil of nothing so much as a collar. He tries not to think about it as he pushes it away: Clint's pulse is jumping in his throat and the stiff strap has left a red line right below his bobbing Adams apple. 

Were Phil doing his job, he'd make note of that, show detached, professional concern at Agent Barton's possible discomfort and whether it might affect his breathing. 

Phil is not doing his job. He reaches out, press his thumb against the line, tender but firm, right at the base of Clint's neck. Clint swallows, audibly, and Phil looks up.

Clint's pupils are dilated, and his lips part around a shallow, almost-gasping breath. 

"Kiss me?" Clint whispers, and Phil thinks it may have been meant as a command, but been rendered a question by Clint’s obvious hesitation. He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the dip between Clint's collarbones. Clint makes a nervous, whining sound, but his grip on Phil's hips tightens. Phil takes this as encouragement, or at least permission, and begins to kiss a neat trail of kisses up Clint's throat, along Clint's jaw and under his ear. Clint's head falls back: encouragement, then, and Phil takes advantage, licks slowly at the side of Clint's neck.

Clint arches his back, and tucks his nose against Phil's temple. Phil smiles and ducks his head, bracing his palms on Clint's thighs again (curling his fingers under the straps this time), as he catches the zipper at the front of Clint's vest in his teeth. 

Clint chokes on what sounds like a laugh as Phil eases it down, grabs at Phil's jacket and tries to pull him closer. He starts panting when Phil gets about halfway, and Phil looks up at him: Clint's flushed and trembling, and Phil rubs soothingly at his hips for a moment before reaching back, dragging the chair back underneath him, and dropping into it.

He pulls the zipper down the rest of the way. Pushes the vest open, runs his hands over the skin-tight, sleeveless black undershirt Clint wears beneath, and rubs his cheek against Clint's still-clothed erection. Clint whimpers, hips twitching, and Phil reaches up, unclips the buckles tethering the vest to the pants. 

He guides the vest off Clint's shoulders, lets it drop in an unceremonious heap on his desk. Clint's vest is a masterpiece of engineering but Clint's chest is a work of art, and there is no question as to which Phil prefers right now. He slips his hand under Clint's shirt: Clint leans into the touch, lets Phil trace over the firm lines and curves of his muscles with one hand as he strokes between Clint’s legs with the other.

Clint bucks into his palm, almost hard enough to fall off the desk, and Phil remembers himself, drags his hand away from its fevered exploration of Clint's abs to roll down the pants just enough free Clint's cock. 

He ducks his head again, curls his tongue around the shaft. Clint moans, and Phil drags the head into his mouth, gives it a slow, careful suck. Clint's hands have found their way to the back if Phil's neck, have begun to run through Phil's short hair, to grasp at his shoulders. Phil appreciates the contact, and gives Clint's thighs a squeeze as he begins to bob his head.

Clint is unsurprisingly loud: moans and harshly panted breaths interspersed with the occasional _Oh fuck_ ’s and _So good_ ’s and _Don't stop, Phil, don't stop_ ’s. He squirms impatiently whenever Phil pulls off, and cradles the back of Phil's head with unusual tenderness throughout. 

He comes without warning, hot down Phil's throat, and apologizes profusely for it, dragging Phil up and out of his chair by the collar of his shirt. Gasps desperately against him for a moment, then flops back onto Phil's desk and brings Phil down on top of him.

It's awkward as hell, leaning over Clint as Clint sprawls over Phil's desk, arches his back over Phil's laptop (at least it's closed, Phil thinks, a little hysterically) and knocks quite a few almost priceless antiques to the floor when he throws his head back. Phil doesn't mind: Clint kisses him, kisses his face and neck and lips with a fervent devotion, and all Phil can think is that it's fine, it's perfect, he's always kept things he valued and adored on his desk, having Clint Barton there makes a certain kind of sense that way. 

It's absurd, Phil knows it is; knows that he'll be hearing about just how absurd their current position is from his back for the next couple of days. But he also knows that Clint is warm and flushed and gorgeous beneath him, groaning helpful suggestions like _fuck me, Phil, bend me over your desk and fuck me_ in between long desperate kisses. His legs are spread as wide as they can be, which isn't much, given that his rather tight pants are half down his thighs, and his black, skin-tight shirt is rolled up under his armpits. 

Phil slides his hands under Clint's hips and up his back: Clint's skin is hot to the touch, and Phil drops his head to Clint's chest, licks and sucks at Clint's hard nipples. Clint makes a gasping, almost pained sound at this and Phil pulls back, realizes he must still be oversensitive. 

Glances up, and Clint is staring at him like he’s looking for him through a thick fog, like he can't be sure of what he's seeing but desperately wants him to be there. He meets Phil's eyes. "Fuck me," he mumbles. "I want you balls deep, Phil, I want you..." he trails off, groans, and lets his head fall back again, throws an arm over his eyes as he does.

Phil stares at him for a second, at his perfect chest and his stomach rising and falling with heavy breaths and his spent cock, still shiny with spit, and doesn't think: just curls his fingers through the straps on Clint's thighs and drags him off the desk. 

His boots are sturdy, anchor him to the floor as Phil turns him around, pushes him back over the desk. Phil press his hand the small of Clint's back, and Clint sighs in relief, moans as Phil rolls his pants down, just to his knees; Phil lets his fingers linger along the edges of the knee pads for a second before leaning into him. Clint groans and presses back, rubbing his bare ass against Phil's still-clothed erection; Phil grabs his waist and keeps him still as he rubs back, with firm, rolling thrusts.

Clint shudders beneath him and Phil slides his palm up, tracing the smooth line of Clint's spine, pushing Clint's shirt up even further. Clint leans up just enough for Phil to slip it off, then drops back down, bracing himself on his forearms. Phil follows him, kisses the nape of his neck as he unbuckles his own belt. He resists the urge to stroke himself, but it's hard, what with Clint still beneath him, stretched out and apparently desperate.

"Fuck me," Clint groans, and Phil nuzzles the back of his neck.

"Can't," he whispers, pulling his erection from his pants. "Want to, but can't."

" _Why?!_ " 

And Phil shouldn't laugh, and he doesn't, but Clint's tone is so petulant and exasperated that he almost wants to. He muffles what might be an aborted chuckle into Clint's shoulder as he slips his cock between Clint's firm thighs. "No condoms in here," he murmurs, gasping a little at the rough hairs brushing against his cock, the corded muscles twitching around it. "No lube."

Clint chuckles, breathless and low. "Figured you'd just come..." another swift, breathless laugh. "Come prepared." He hums, presses his thighs together tight around Phil's cock. "Always such a boy scout, sir." 

"Boy scouts don't do this," he says, nonsensically, as he thrusts harder, starts dripping between Clint's thighs. 

"Hell no they don't, sir," Clint agrees, pressing back against him again. 

Phil drops another kiss to Clint's neck, and slides his handed up, up along the sensitive, vulnerable sides of Clint's torso, up past his shoulders; even as he can’t help but thrust his cock harder, faster, _desperately_ between Clint's legs, he gently curls his palms around Clint's biceps.

Clint flexes, because even like this, he knows his audience, and Phil gasps in his ear. He trails his hands further up Clint's arms, till their bodies are almost perfectly lined up, thigh to thigh, Clint's back flat against Phil's chest, his arms beneath Phil's arms, his fingers tangled with Phil's. 

Phil comes with a gasp, collapses against him, and Clint makes a happy, soft sound as he squeezes Phil's fingers between his own and manages to rub his thumbs across the back of Phil's hands. 

He pants against Clint for a while, leaving messy, wet kisses up the smooth line of Clint's shoulder. Clint doesn't complain, just lies there, his own hot, wet breaths fogging against Phil's black leather blotter, but it's got to be killing him: the edge of the desk is probably biting into his hips or his stomach, making it impossible for him to breath, especially with Phil's added weight pressing him down. Phil scrambles back, glancing over his shoulder to make sure it's the chair he's about to collapse into, and not the floor. 

It is, and he manages, brings Clint back with him with gentle hands around his waist. Clint follows easily, sprawls as comfortably over Phil's lap as he had over Phil's desk. Leans over to roll his pants down the rest of the way, to unlace his boots and let them drop to the ground, and then falls back, exhausted, onto Phil's chest. And that is how Phil ends up with an entirely naked, deliciously sated Clint Barton in his lap: Clint spreads his legs wide over Phil's thighs, drops his head back against Phil's shoulder, and then turns just enough to be able to brush his lips over Phil in a strangely careful, slightly uncertain kiss. 

Phil reaches over, wraps his hand around the back of Clint's neck, and keeps him still as he deepens the kiss. Clint opens his mouth to him, but then wraps his hand around Phil's wrist and pushes him away after a moment. 

"So you still like me like this, huh?" he murmurs, biting his lip, and Phil swallows the urge to chase his mouth, to run his tongue over the slight dent his teeth have made.

"Like what?" he says instead, pointlessly, because he likes Clint in every way he's ever seen him, and in a lot of ways he's only imagined him.

"Like this," Clint whispers, pressing his forehead to Phil's temple. "Not all wrapped up in your field suit, just like this."

"It's not _my_ —"

Clint gives a drowsy sort of chuckle, which almost hides the nervous tension beneath his words: "Yeah, it is. 's got your fingerprints all over it."

 _Well, it certainly does now_ , Phil doesn't say. He curls a hand over Clint's ear, cards his fingers through Clint's sweat-soaked hair. "It was never about the suit." 

It was a little about the suit, he has to admit. But the suit was always about Clint, designed to protect him where Phil couldn't, and, if he's being honest, to touch him were Phil wouldn't let himself. To mark him as SHIELD's, since he'd never be Phil's. 

Yeah, Phil could see where Clint might've gotten a little confused. But at the moment, said field suit is lying in various crumpled piles on or around Phil's desk, while Clint's lying (well, sitting) in Phil's arms, so that has to mean something. 

"I still like you like this," he says, carefully meeting Clint's eyes, before leaning in to kiss him. Clint melts against him, like that last strand of nervous tension has finally snapped, and Phil smiles: his office is a mess, his computer may be broken, he will at some point have to explain the unmistakable stains on a very expensive prototype and on his own suit, not to mention his desk, and he can't quite remember whether he locked the door.

But Clint's solid and warm and real against him (and sweaty, and heavy, but that matters less), and he can't bring himself to care about anything else.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to several folks over at the STCC Chatzy group, with whom I brainstormed about this. So, y'know. Blame them.


End file.
